


Spirit

by Silence_Speaker



Series: Patchwork [5]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Human AU, Roman Invasion sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-22
Updated: 2014-11-22
Packaged: 2018-02-26 15:16:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2656739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silence_Speaker/pseuds/Silence_Speaker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo remembered, how could he not?</p>
<p>He hated even as he loved.</p>
<p>Those two emotions went hand in hand with the new world the Romans were trying to conquer.</p>
<p>(Unconnected oneshots.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spirit

**Author's Note:**

> Disturbing themes, slavery.
> 
> Warning: Romans...slavery, gore, death, rabid animal...
> 
> Pairings: None.
> 
> Disclaimer.
> 
> (I don't own the Boudica series by Manda Scott whom I have shamelessly stolen plot from.)

Bilbo gently calmed the high strung yearling colt.

It was a beautiful roan, and definitely a horse of remarkable speed...The only problem was its temperament.

It was an utter beast.

Mad fury rolled from its deep brown eyes, from the froth that stained the curled back lips and the rollicking movements as it attempted to buck off the rider who dared climb on his back.

Bilbo did not last long.

The fact he had even mounted the beast spoke more for his skill than half a year working in the stables had. 

He bit back a yelp as his body was thrown back against the post fence with a sickening thud.

Bilbo blinked black spots out of his vision and winced at his harsh ragged gasps for air. His lungs felt fit to burst, the air was surely not reaching them down his throat-

Bilbo ducked his torso down, sticking his head by his knees and feeling the almost instantaneous release of pressure as he gulped down sweet spring air.

It was not the first time he had been thrown but it was the first time in many years...

The last time he had been unhorsed was when he was six and his cousin snatched the reins away from him as a joke. Even then he would have been fine, he had been brought up with the horses after all, had his horse not spooked at the movements of a small grass snake.

Barrel chest heaved, sweaty flanks quivered and those mad, rolling eyes locked on his form, small against the paddock.

The mad horse snorted and sent Bilbo what must have been a smug look. It didn’t take its eyes from him though.

There was an unsettling amount of intelligence in those dark eyes and an even more disconcerting amount of animosity.

It was not quite fair; Bilbo mused, that the horse took such a disliking to him (it gave the same amount of hatred for everyone), he wasn’t the one who threatened a lashing nor used sharp spurs. In fact Bilbo was the horse’s main caretaker, being assigned the lowest position with a devil horse no one wanted within ten yards, he fed the wild horse, talked to it in his native tongue.

And it still tried to kick him when he got too close, bit him when it got the chance.

Loud laughter rang through the paddock and Bilbo felt his ears burn.

He could not tell which was stronger, embarrassment or anger.

(It was anger, it always was, such a bitter dark feeling that sapped him of sane thought beyond the blind desire to escape.)

“It seems even the sparrow cannot withstand the cursed horse!” 

Bilbo’s fists clenched and the devil horse’s nostrils flared at the harsh voice.

The taunting voice continued but Bilbo shut him out, his eyes locked on the now still roan.

Bolg was the worst out of all the freemen who worked for Sauron and, unfortunately for Bilbo, also one of the highest ranking.

He made life for Sauron’s slaves unbearable.

Bilbo had a hatred for Bolg that almost outstripped his loathing for the Romans. 

And the Romans had taken everything from him. 

He gritted his teeth at the nickname; it seemed to delight Bolg whenever he managed to get a rise out of Bilbo. Bolg, an unusually tall man, constantly belittled Bilbo’s short stature.

He had been average height in his tribe, Hobbits, but to the Romans and most other peoples he was small. Something he was not ashamed of, he was part of the horse people-they did not need height to succeed. In fact a smaller frame was better, less of a burden for the horse to carry. It made for swifter foot.

However, sometimes he did wish to be a little bulkier, just so he had the strength to properly overpower Bolg and flee, leave his life as a slave and return to his homeland-

Bilbo cut off that thought abruptly. He had no home, his family had been slaughtered in their beds and he had been carried off as part of the plunder.

Sauron had soon learnt that Bilbo could not be put to the use he had been brought for, Bilbo was far too wild, Sauron said.

Bilbo knew it was because he fought, he would not bow down to orders and even the threat of a beating did nothing to quell his spirit. He was unpredictable (this had led to him nearly escaping a sum total of four times already) and as such dangerous.

It was not worth the effort of breaking him in, Sauron said, so Bilbo was given the duty of mucking out the stables.

It wasn’t long before his skill for working with the horses was spotted and he was moved up to training the yearlings.

Bilbo eyed the steaming horse; lips curling back to reveal blood flecked teeth.

The roan tossed its head and stamped. Bilbo chuckled mirthlessly.

The reins were twisted amongst the course mane.

“Take him back to the stable. He’s to be ready for the ceremony tomorrow. You as well, you’re to be riding the speckled mare.” 

Bilbo nodded at his orders biting back the urge to curse.

He did not need another brand. And Bolg had threatened to tear his sharp tongue from his mouth.

He was not allowed to speak his native tongue, it was seen as insubordination.

He eyed the still horse with trepidation. Getting the horse back into its stall was something no one wanted to do. Well, no one who still wished to live. 

(Some days Bilbo wasn’t sure which category he fell into.)

“Come along Smaug. Come along oh Smaug the magnificent.” Bilbo coaxed grasping at the half apple he had in his pocket. He had filched it earlier, to supplement his meagre meals, but he would rather live another day than eat a near mouldy half apple.

Sometimes Smaug could be bribed. Most of the time he lulled you into a false sense of security then lashed out.

Bilbo kept both eyes on the temperamental yearling as he held out the apple, just out of reach, slowly making his way to the stables.

The moment the door of the stall closed, Smaug realised he had been had and ignoring the apple, that Bilbo was about to chuck at him before escaping the stall, Smaug exploded in a serious of violent movements, legs kicking, teeth snapping and eyes rolling.

Bilbo ducked, rolling backwards and vaulted over the low door. His foot caught on the edge of the wood and he tumbled to the ground outside of the stall where Smaug was bucking and dancing in a crazy frenzy.

He stood, letting out a deep breath, and grinned sharply at the horse, who sent a jarring kick at the door in response. Luckily the locks held.

Smaug had escaped more than once and now was kept in a more secure stable with a specially made stall.

Bilbo thought that was a lot of effort made for a mad horse but then Smaug was the fastest horse in the stables and the most striking with the starburst pattern of white upon his head, his broad chest and strong legs. And Sauron liked his ‘spirit’. Bilbo called it madness.

_“You’ll have to try your luck tomorrow.”_ Bilbo said quietly with more than a hint of challenge. Smaug stilled his movements slightly and Bilbo realised he had been talking in his native tongue, not that harsh Latin. 

He tossed the high strung horse the mouldy apple piece and left the stables hearing the sounds of said fruit being completely pummelled under hoof.

Smaug was not only vicious but also spiteful. He was never not angry, livid even.

Bilbo hated the horse.

And loved it.

Its spirit would not be broken by the yolk of the Romans, it continually lashed out at its captors and it had taken more than the usual dislike to Bolg.

He grimaced. He pitied the poor sod who would have to ride the roan in the ceremony tomorrow. The yearling acted up at the best of times, let alone the worst. Smaug also hated the other horses; he would not miss the chance to bite the nearest shoulder.

Plus, who was going to mount the devil-horse? No one but Bilbo had been able to do so and Bilbo had been thrown mere seconds into it.

He doubted his mother (Belladonna, the greatest horse whisperer his tribe had ever seen) could have ridden the mad horse.

Bilbo grimaced as he entered the sleeping quarters for the male slaves. He would have to guide the speckled mare carefully tomorrow. Myrtle was nervy and the routine was unforgiving.

Why did such a prestigious legion have to visit?

 

#

 

He gripped the reins tighter and squeezed Myrtle gently with his thighs.

It was not how the Romans were taught to ride, they relied all too heavily on the bit and using their strength.

Bilbo instead coaxed the horses, asked them to move for him, listened to their natural rhythm. He ran with them instead of astride.

Two horn blasts.

He clicked his tongue, quietly, and the horse came to a halt standing in a row with another fifty horses either side, in front and behind. On display.

Sauron had promised a gift of three hundred horses to the legion moving in for a while.

There had been a flurry to speed up the training of the yearlings and calling all the horses in from the paddocks further away so as to meet the order.

Looking at the gleaming coats, of all the second yearlings, Bilbo couldn’t help but feel more than a little proud. 

He had worked with most of these horses after all and they looked splendid, magnificent specimens of horse flesh.

Bilbo was hard pressed to admit that some of these horses were good enough to have been bred by his people.

His mood soured.

Some of them probably had been born in the paddocks of the Shire.

In an effort to think on something else Bilbo wondered who was riding Smaug. He would have loved to see someone thrown from the proud beasts back, well, someone if they weren’t one of the slaves who had no choice in the matter.

He felt a phantom itch on his wrists and fought the urge to rub some warmth back into them, the marks of shackles never quite leaving. He had to be perfect in this parade, lest Sauron’s patience in him diminish entirely.

He was a little surprised he wasn’t dead by the wayside already but he supposed he was the best with the horses and so maybe valuable there?

(No, a snide part of his mind reminded him, Sauron just wants you in his clasps to prove he managed to put down the horse peoples rebellions, slaughtered the families in their homes...He was merely a trophy to show off.

Plus Sauron seemed to derive perverse enjoyment out of seeing Bilbo’s escape attempts foiled, in the same way he liked watching Smaug. As though they were toys for his pleasure and their shows of insubordination were to keep him entertained.)

Bilbo brought the speckled mare into a soft canter, still in step and in position with the rest of the group.

They showed off the horse flesh by galloping around the stadium at a fast trot.

He wished for the saddle of the horse to be gone, the reins too...He wished to be seated atop Myrtle without the needless frippery, Myrtle’s mane flying free, the muscles bunching and releasing under his thighs and-

Bilbo snorted, the sound lost in the thundering of hooves, trampling the sand underfoot.

The horn blew again and their formation slowed to a halt.

The gates opened and Bilbo bit back a surprised exclamation. 

There was Smaug and seated atop him with careless ease was Bolg.

How? Why was Smaug not bucking, doing everything in his power to unseat the arrogant man?

Blood flecked froth flew as Smaug snorted.

Bilbo’s eyes narrowed. Was that...?

He felt his blood boil.

The sunlight glinted off of shiny sharp spurs that dug into Smaug’s heaving sides and gleamed from the blood flecked sharp bit.

It was cruel, so cruel.

Bilbo could not bear to see such spirit dominated in such a cruel way.

Brown eyes rolled as he was pushed into a canter.

Bilbo’s eyes widened. Smaug was plotting. He didn’t like the rider or the sharp things tearing at his mouth and sides either. From the look of him Smaug had pitched a fit when Bolg first mounted him.

Smaug trotted sedately into the middle of the stadium as though he was a god amongst mortals.

Bilbo stared fixedly, ignoring the fact he was supposed to keep his eyes forward. He bet more than just him were watching the ensuing events carefully. Smaug had a fearsome reputation.

He had killed a few stable hands, damaged others. Bilbo had been lucky to get away with simply a bruise on his shoulder when he had been kicked when attempting to clean the mud from the beast’s hooves.

There was a definite sense of smugness coming from Bolg.

The sharp spurs dug fiercely into Smaug’s sides and the reins jerked forcing Smaug to a halt.

The horse stood, unnaturally still, coat glistening and darkened with sweat.

Suddenly the horse exploded into motion.

Bolg gripped tightly to the pommel of the saddle, yelling and tugging at the bridle as well as digging the spurs in unforgiving.

And then, just when it seemed that Bolg was going to win the battle, Smaug did something Bilbo had only seen once.

Smaug reared up, managing to stay balanced on just his back legs for far longer than Bilbo had thought possible, great barrel chest heaving, eyes rolling and with a scream of pure hate the horse fell backwards, crushing Bolg with its strong body.

Smaug rolled in the remains of Bolg making sure his tormenter was truly dead before slowly standing up again, seemingly unhurt.

Smaug snorted a challenge and screamed again, this time in challenge his tail flicking.

Yells and shouts abounded and suddenly Smaug was surrounded by the various stable hands and slaves sent to subdue the beast.

Bilbo could only watch in fearful fascination and Smaug proceeded to decimate them. 

Blood soaked coat, mad rolling eyes and surrounded by gore Smaug made a terrifying picture.

No one else dared approach the horse.

Almost unconsciously, as though in a dream, Bilbo threw himself from Myrtle and dashed over. 

He slowed as he came to Smaug, murmuring to him in his own tongue watching as his ears swivelled towards him.

Smaug snorted but seemed content to just watch as Bilbo approached. 

He knew this wouldn’t last long.

Sure enough Smaug kicked out once Bilbo was close enough and Bilbo ducked into a roll to escape the flying hooves.

Bilbo looked around wondering how he was going to get close enough to the horse...

He grinned sharply when the idea came to him, his blood pounding through his veins.

Despite the fear, the lingering bitterness that tainted everything since he became a slave, and the full knowledge he could be stepping towards a gruesome death underneath a horses hooves he couldn’t help but feel alive for the first time in months.

Bilbo chucked a pebble near to the horse. Smaug’s ears flicked but he didn’t turn towards the annoyance; he was too smart for that.

Bilbo grimaced; he hadn’t wanted to do this.

He chucked a stone at the horse directly this time. His aim was true, as always, and Smaug turned to the stone. Bilbo took his chance and threw a handful of sand into the horse’s face and eyes.

Smaug stilled, blinking to remove the foreign object obscuring his vision.

_“Shhhh, sh, let’s get that nasty bit off, shall we?”_ Bilbo murmured soothingly in a lilting tone stepping forward and grasping the bridle.

Smaug’s eyes rolled.

He avoided biting teeth and managed to pull the bit out of a torn and savaged mouth as well as pulling off the saddle. Smaug snorted, air blowing from his nostrils warningly. Bilbo knew what was going to happen almost before it did.

Smaug dashed off, running around the parade stadium searching for an escape. There was none.

The gate was shut once more.

Movement caught his eyes and Bilbo saw spears lifted in readiness. They were going to kill the devil-horse!

His eyes narrowed. Smaug did not deserve to be put down like a rabid animal, even if he was one.

His spirit was too great to die so mundanely.

Bilbo eyed the horse still running about in a frenzy. He would not be able to still the horse a second time.

Bilbo tossed away the savage bit. 

A warriors mount would be the only way to get atop of Smaug but the last time Bilbo had tried it he had sustained a broken wrist and that was when the horse was standing still and smaller than the one currently galloping at an insane speed.

He had been twelve then though, he was sixteen now...

Bilbo dashed forwards snatching a spear from the nearest person, the person aiming at Smaug and ran.

He ran towards Smaug, the spear clutching tightly in his left arm. He was coming up to the horse on the wrong side; it was the wrong angle-

Bilbo’s breaths shortened and not only from exertion. A wild feeling of reckless glee filled him mingling with the utter terror until he could not tell where one ended and another began.

He judged the distance and leapt, using the butt of the spear as leverage.

He landed badly, but he landed and that was the main thing.

With one hand he clutched and spear and the other he wound into the thick mane, free from constraint seeing as no one could hold the horse still for long enough to braid the hair.

He felt the bunching of muscles underneath him and clung tighter to the mane readying himself.

Smaug was (somehow) even more violent in trying to get Bilbo off of him than he had been yesterday.

It was all Bilbo could do to cling on for dear life.

Smaug reared up, just like he had done with Bolg and Bilbo leaned forward hand gripping so tightly to the mane that he ripped a few hairs out.

He _laughed_.

Insanely, delightedly, in fear of his life- everything.

He laughed.

Smaug lowered his forelegs and stood, huffing with exhaustion.

Bilbo did not loosen his grip and found to his surprise he was still clutching the spear.

_“Do you think you can run?”_ Bilbo asked the horse who had temporarily ceded control. Smaug snorted.

He wheeled the horse round and grinned sharply, quelling the urge to shout inarticulate sounds just because.

Almost without thought Smaug dashed towards the closed gate.

Bilbo whooped. Riding Smaug was not like riding another horse; Smaug moved almost instinctively to Bilbo’s every whim, as though he was an extension of Bilbo’s body.

Smaug and Bilbo wheeled round, facing the closed gate. Smaug pawed the ground.

Bilbo could see Azog, Bolg’s father, standing beside the gate, axe in hand ready to use.

It was barely a second before horse and man lunged forwards tearing towards the gate at furious clip. Bilbo readied the spear then launched it, memories of his youth spent learning how to wield a spear rushing through him.

His aim struck true and Azog crumpled.

They reached the gate both elated. Smaug reared up and with a scream kicked at the bolted door. He repeated this again and again until (finally) it sprang open and Bilbo was away, flying on top of the fastest horse he had ever ridden, fleeing from the shouts and pursuit. 

He laughed delightedly, he was going to make it, freedom was within his grasp. Smaug screamed along with his laughter and it was triumphant.

He was free at las-

A solid object struck the back of his head and Bilbo tumbled off of the horse with a pained shout. He lay upon the ground trying to regain his breath and blinking spots from his vision.

Bilbo struggled to his feet. The horse had stopped when its rider fell and stood to the side ready to attack the new opponent along with Bilbo.

It seemed Bilbo had won its loyalty.

He was not deluded enough to believe this would last long. Smaug was fickle.

His head was swimming and he stood swaying, wishing he had a weapon (anything!) with which to defend himself.

He was trained in long distance weapons, such as spears, all of the Shire had been good at that-bows and arrows, slings- close combat was not something he excelled at.

“You have a hard head.” A familiar voice grumbled in amusement. Bilbo turned, nearly falling with the shift in movement.

“Balin?” He questioned, voice weaker than he would have liked.

“Aye lad.” Came the reply before another blunt object struck his head and he faded into the darkness clawing at his vision.

 

#

 

Balin sighed looking at the youth asleep on a pile of furs.

He was head of the Thracian cavalry and had come here to pick up the horses he was promised. He had not expected, even in his wildest dreams to see Bilbo there.

The lad had grown since the last time he had seen him, but it had been three years.

Belladonna Took had taken herself and her son travelling along the trade routes with various wares.

She and her son had saved him from bandits with just a simple sling each and one or two spears and then had fixed him up.

He had spent a good few months with the mother and son. He liked them.

In return for saving his life Balin had made sure to direct the troops away from the Shire, Bilbo and Belladonna’s homeland.

It seemed he hadn’t been able to protect them enough. 

Not if Bilbo was there with the marks of slave shackles on his wrists and new scars he certainly hadn’t sported before.

Balin sighed feeling every single year he had lived hang heavily off him.

He had promised Sauron that no news of this debacle of a parade would reach the official reports if Sauron gave him Bilbo and the mad horse.

Sauron had been a mixture of reluctant and relieved.

Dwalin, tasked with stabling the mad horse, had not been so happy. It had bitten his shoulder and eventually he had given up stabling it and just had a temporary paddock built around the horse that would not leave Bilbo’s side.

Trust Bilbo to have a mad horse, Balin snorted.

He had the papers drawn up and signed as well as the tax paid; Bilbo was no longer a slave, free to wander where he wished.

The lad stirred and Balin stepped forwards, a cup of warm spiced wine in his hands.


End file.
